The Tuneless Flute
by DrarryHarmon
Summary: Malfoy's up to something, and Harry insists he doesn't care.


It was a long, seemingly endless summer for Harry Potter after the war had finally ended, Voldemort successfully defeated. Harry dutifully went to each and every funeral of the brave witches and wizards who had given their lives to save the Wizarding World - to protect their home. Each one had weighed heavily on him, his heart aching a little more each time his hand was shaken and he was thanked for coming by a witch or wizard, tears in their eyes for a fallen loved one.

Harry rarely spoke during this time, heart in his throat as his chest constricted painfully. He couldn't help but feel at fault for the mess. He reprimanded himself each time that he sat in the back row of a service, because _he should've been able to stop this. He should've been quicker._ Inevitably, there would have been some casualties, but why did there have to be _so many?_ Inevitably, Harry blamed himself.

After the pain became unbearable, Harry simply numbed his heart. He pushed his dark thoughts to the blackest and least used corner of his mind, and he left them there. He barely acknowledged his friends and the people he cared about, and he ignored their concerns. Harry was _fine_. He felt completely normal. Well, as normal as one Harry Potter could be.

It came as no surprise to him, really, when he didn't feel particularly as excited to be going back to Hogwarts as he had in the past for his final year, dubbed _Eighth Year_. Harry supposed he felt a bit more indifferent to things than he ever had, but thought it was really for the best. So, still, he kept quiet.

Harry was undeniably closing in on himself, and he couldn't really argue with Hermione when she insisted how unhealthy it was - how he needed to let it all out and _bloody talk to us!_ He supposed he appreciated his friends' worries, but he still couldn't force himself to listen. He hoped they understood, though he reckoned they probably didn't.

Harry roamed the hallways of Hogwarts like he had done so many times in the past seven years, ignoring the mumbling of fellow students and looks of admiration. Everything in which he didn't deserve. It hurt to think about what some of these people had gone through during the last year, while he was off doing his own thing. He realized some of these students would probably never be able to truly call Hogwarts home. He looked around and sometimes saw only the haunted faces of the younger students, or the wretched pain in the eyes of those who'd lost someone dear to them. The nightmarish looks sketched across some faces had Harry turning away quickly - guiltily.

Ginny Weasley quickly understood that Harry needed time, that he was not interested in a relationship. She couldn't help but notice he wasn't particularly interested in anything at all, for that matter. When she had tried to talk to Harry about this, he had simply shrugged and turned away.

But what should he have said, really? He wasn't going to lie, neither to Ginny nor himself. He wasn't interested in anything anymore. He hardly knew what he _could_ be interested in. His part in everything was over, so now what possible use would he be?

Harry took the classes suggested of him, ones he'd need to become an Auror, and worked harder than he ever had before. Mostly just to get his mind off things. He presumed he might've even enjoyed it a bit, had he let himself. But he really didn't think he deserved that, either.

Sat in the Great Hall with loads of people that cared about him surrounding him, Harry felt inexplicably lonely. Perhaps just another thing he deserved. These people were laughing and smiling, chatting away happily, but it all felt strained, even to Harry. And he hated it. He hated this miserable existence he'd been sucked into, and really couldn't help the self-pity that came next.

But then there was Draco Malfoy. Harry had no intention of giving Malfoy even the slightest bit of attention when he came back to Hogwarts. He honestly didn't even expect the Slytherin to return at all. But when Harry saw him that first time back, pale and bony - both more than usual - and abnormally quiet, the boy had yet again grasped his attention. It was sixth year all over again - but worse.

Harry tried to ignore the pull he felt at first. He tried not to care when Malfoy didn't defend himself to those students who pinned blame on him for everything that had happened because they were angry and in pain and needed to lash out at _somebody_. He tried to tell himself that the boy honestly deserved it after everything he'd done - but it was no use. Harry felt guilty for him, too.

He pushed these thoughts aside for awhile, ignored the pull in his belly that insisted on knowing what Malfoy was doing at all times. He worked ever harder, pushed his friends even further, and pretended not to know that he was destroying himself.

It all came crashing down, however, when he glimpsed up one morning in the Great Hall from a Transfiguration assignment due in a week to find himself staring at Malfoy. Curiosity and that nagging feeling of all things Malfoy got the better of him and he had to know what he was doing, sitting alone at the end of the Slytherin table, ignoring and being ignored.

He appeared to be holding something, perhaps cleaning it off. It seemed to Harry some kind of musical instrument, but unlike anything he'd ever seen. The best way he could describe it was that it was a type of flute, made of pure gold with fine silvery engravings on it that swirled and twisted into designs he didn't understand. Harry found himself finally interested in something. And that was knowing just what Draco Malfoy was up to.

Every time Harry walked into the Great Hall for a meal, he always searched for Malfoy in the crowd, who was usually never that difficult to find. And each time he found him with that same damn flute, always with wand in hand, making adjustments he knew not of.

One evening Harry could no longer help himself, and he took out the Marauder's Map. " _I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,"_ he murmured quietly as he sat on his bed, crimson curtains tightly shut and spelled silent.

He searched for a familiar dot as he had done so many times before, and was surprised slightly to find it in the library. Harry figured that Malfoy was unlikely to be getting into too much mischief over there, so he spelled the map blank and crawled under his covers. He'd had a long day, after all, and was exhausted.

When Harry found himself partnered up with Malfoy the next day in potions class, Slughorn going on and on about the importance of not getting sugar maple and black maple confused, he figured it was just his luck. Malfoy had said nothing, only gave him a curt nod, his face unusually firm. For the rest of the class, they worked almost silently on the complex potion, and Harry ignored the obvious _looks_ Ron and Hermione were giving him from the table in front of them.

Malfoy obviously knew what he was doing more than Harry, so he let him take charge, following closely every move he made. He was only slightly surprised and even a bit pleased with himself for understanding Malfoy's movements; from the way he cut a root to the way he slowly stirred the potion clockwise. He let himself be a bit proud for how much he'd improved in the class. He wondered briefly what Snape would've thought, but quickly discarded his musing.

Harry took over for a moment as Malfoy went to grab something from the back, and felt unexpectedly at ease. "Not bad, Potter." Harry could just barely hear the compliment muttered from Malfoy's lips, and forced the heat in his cheeks to stop rising. It was genuine praise that he was instantly suspicious of, but he mumbled a quick _thanks_ anyway.

When their potion turned out to be even better than Ron and Hermione's, Harry felt his lips twitch upwards slightly for the first time in what felt like ages. Malfoy wasn't all bad, and he decided to finally stop obsessing over him so much. Whatever it was that he was up to, Harry was sure Malfoy could handle himself. Not that he wasn't going to stop following him around from time to time - he was just going to stop insisting he was the bad guy.

"So," Ron started as the Golden Trio sat in their three favorite chairs in the Eighth Year Common Room, Hermione leaning against him as she quietly practiced a new, difficult spell and Harry read a chapter of his charms textbook that Professor Flitwick had assigned that afternoon. He only continued once they had both looked up. "You and Malfoy today," he said awkwardly, but didn't elaborate.

Harry blinked. "What about it?"

Ron shifted uneasily, then looked to Hermione, no doubt for support. She rolled her eyes. "Well, Harry, it looked like you two seemed to be... getting along. We just wanted to know what was up, that's all. You haven't exactly been very talkative lately."

"That's an understatement," Ron muttered darkly, folding his arms over his chest before staring into the flames that sparked and swerved in the fireplace. Hermione scowled and nudged him with her elbow. " _What?"_ Ron exploded suddenly, albeit in a whisper. "It's true! We've done everything we can to help him! We've given him space, we've tried to be gentle, we've told him over and over again that nothing was his fault and that if it wasn't for him, our world would be a complete disaster, but nothing's working! I'm tired of it, and I want my best mate back. But he won't even tell us anything, so I don't have a bloody clue what's actually wrong!" Ron panted and turned to Harry pleadingly. "So how am I supposed to help?"

Harry didn't seem to be the only one surprised by the outburst, because Hermione was looking at Ron in shock and something that might've been similar to awe. He looked at his two best friends and gulped, willing the hot wetness behind his eyes to _go away_. Harry didn't want this. Didn't _need_ this right now. He felt an all too familiar ache in his chest begin to grow larger, but he couldn't let it. He denied that pain for a reason.

"I'm going to bed," he choked out quietly, because right now he was a coward. He knew it, too. He wanted to run away from his problems instead of deal with them. He didn't want to talk about the war, or how it made him feel, because that would just bring more pain. He didn't want to talk about why he didn't talk to his friends, because they wouldn't understand. Blaming himself put reason to all the deaths and injuries that would never heal completely. And he most certainly didn't want to talk about Malfoy, because then he'd have to admit to himself that the boy did something to him, not particularly unpleasant, and made him feel alive. It was something he didn't know if he _wanted_ to feel at the moment. During the final battle, he'd basically walked straight to his death with his head held high, hadn't he? He supposed having something to fight for and having something to live for weren't quite the same thing.

Harry didn't go to bed when he went up to his dormitory that he shared with the other four boys he'd always shared with back in Gryffindor Tower. Instead, he quickly grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and wrapped it around himself, making sure nothing was showing before he also took hold of the Marauder's Map and went back down to the common room. He stopped briefly to watch Ron and Hermione, who both sat in the same spot they'd been in when he left. They were talking frantically in a whisper, ignoring everyone else in the room while they glanced worriedly at the stairs that led to the boys' dormitory. More guilt toppled onto Harry when he realized Hermione was steadily blinking back tears. It never ceased to amaze him how strong she was, but he couldn't think about that right now.

He had things to do.

Harry touched his palm to the wall, five tiles from the ground, and two from the left of an ugly tapestry. Then the wall opened, sliding apart as Harry slipped through the crack quickly, hoping nobody noticed, but not really caring.

A surprised eighth year that used to be a Ravenclaw gasped as the entrance was opened, but no one came out. Harry winced when he realized he'd forgotten her name, simultaneously wishing he'd waited just a second longer so he could go out and definitely be unnoticed. Oh well, whatever.

Harry hurried past.

He didn't slow down until he was almost to the library where he finally realized he should look at the map before he went in. There was no guarantee that Malfoy was in there, even though he hadn't seen him in the common room. Not that he spent much time there, anyway. Well, that's just what Harry _assumed_ , of course. He shook his head.

When he'd taken the map out, he soon realized he was right, however. Malfoy was in the library, just like he almost always had been when Harry looked. He also appeared to be alone, which didn't come as much surprise. Madam Pince looked up only briefly as he walked in, cloak bunched under his robes, but ignored him in his search for Malfoy. His map told him he was near the back, but he'd have to do the rest of the work himself.

He wandered around slowly and quietly, so as not to shock Malfoy, but when he finally spotted the Slytherin, he stopped moving completely. Harry stared openly at the boy from behind a shelf, watching as his face screwed up in intense concentration - if not a little bit of irritation. Tightly held in his fist was the gold and silver instrument that Harry had seen him carrying around so many times before in the past couple months. He was a bit surprised Malfoy was still so intrigued by it.

When Harry got a closer look at what he was doing, he realized Malfoy had a book in front of him - not that of a textbook, but more of a musical notebook. And then he was undeniably mesmerized as Malfoy brought what he distinctly remembered Hermione telling him once was called a head joint to his mouth. Malfoy's thin lips parted momentarily before closing around the mouth piece. Harry was so entranced by Malfoy's lips for no apparent reason, that he didn't even think about the fact that he was about to start playing a _flute_. In the _library_.

But as Malfoy took a breath through his nose, eyes flickering from the book to his fingers that covered some of the holes, and finally appeared to blow softly, no noise came out.

Harry was only slightly confused. Perhaps _that_ was why Malfoy looked so aggravated. The bloody thing didn't work. He found himself vaguely disappointed, as he slowly became aware of the fact that he _wanted_ to hear Malfoy play. It was so un-Malfoy-like that he was instantly drawn to the idea. Especially after the way Malfoy had wrapped his lips around that -

He shook his head and flushed slightly. What was all that about?

Deciding against the decision to reveal himself, Harry slowly backed away from Malfoy and his - whatever. He wasn't ready for the heat that filled in the pit of his belly, nor the emotions that sprung in his chest when he thought about Malfoy. He wasn't ready to start _feeling_ again.

As Harry lay in his four-poster bed that night, wide-awake, his mind traveled back to Malfoy and the library. He couldn't get the image of his thin, pale pink, and undoubtedly soft lips pressed gently around the head joint out of his head. The heat in his belly from before came back with a vengeance, and he shuttered. It was going to be a long night.

A few days later, Harry found himself sat next to Malfoy once again in the dungeon the Potions lab was held in. He didn't think that shocked just himself because his two best friends had been looking back from where they sat in front, just to stare for a second and turn back again.

Malfoy looked so peaceful as he worked, and Harry was rather mortified as he recognized things about the boy he'd never noticed before. Like the way Malfoy would bite his lower lip softly as he concentrated. Or how his grey eyes sparked briefly when his work was progressing like he planned. Or how, when there was a particularly unpleasant stench in the air, he would scrunch up his nose cutely.

... _Cutely?_

Harry quickly looked away and tried to make himself think about something else. But his eyes were caught staring at Malfoy's hands, and he was just as entranced. He watched as long, slim, and pale fingers wrapped loosely around the stirring rod as he stirred their potion counter-clockwise six times.

When Slughorn once again congratulated them for the best made potion, Harry figured it was all Malfoy's doing with his rather stunning talent, because he had to have been positively useless that day. And when Malfoy's lips twitched slightly in the beginnings of a smile when Potions class was over and it was time to leave, Harry would deny how his stomach flip-flopped and _want_ heated him all over.

And it was probably because he practically ran back to his dormitory that he missed grey eyes trailing him all the way until he was properly out of sight. Harry thought that this might've been what it felt like to have a panic attack as he collapsed on his bed, burying his head into the fabric of his pillow. He didn't understand this. He _couldn't_. This _feeling_ had been more intense than anything he'd felt in what seemed like ages. And he didn't want it. He desperately wanted the numbness that had consumed him for those few months. He knew it would take only one thing, one emotion, for everything to come crashing back. All the pain, sorrow, and regret. The aching feeling of loss that had stayed with him his entire life.

No.

Harry couldn't deal with it. He just _couldn't_.

So, he stayed away. He didn't go to the Great Hall for meals, took any other path that wouldn't have him running into the Slytherin, forced himself to ignore the boy in any class they shared together. Refused to partner with him for any more potion making. Missed the brief spark of hurt in grey eyes when he insisted he wanted to work with Ron instead, Hermione agreeing she would work the blonde boy in his place.

Harry was studying persistently in the library, barely acknowledging the hunger pain shooting through his stomach, when a sharp crack blasted the air next to him. He jumped in surprise, nearly falling out of his chair. When he turned to glare at the culprit of the noise, he came face to face with rather large bug eyes, a long, crooked nose, and large, pointed ears that twitched at the sudden attention. Harry really did fall out of his chair when he jerked back in fright.

A loud squeak penetrated the air, and Harry really hoped that Madam Pince hadn't heard the racket, even though he found it unlikely. He really did want to stay in the library, and was not in the mood to be kicked out.

"Oh, is Mr Harry Potter Sir being alright? Melby is being so very sorry," the creature cried as it stumbled over to a very confused, and frankly a little scared, Harry. "Melby did not mean to frighten Mr Harry Potter Sir!"

Harry grasped the edge of the table he'd been working at with one hand, and found himself staring into large eyes that seemed to contain pools of water, and he found himself sighing with impatience. He really hoped the house-elf - Melby, apparently - wasn't going to cry. There was already a spiking ache in his head - unlike when his scar used to hurt, but not entirely unrelated - and anything more stressful would just make it grow.

"It's alright," Harry mumbled softly, pulling himself into an upright position. It was then that he noticed the silver tray that had been set in the spot he had been leaning over only moments ago, his textbooks pushed clear onto the other side of the table. Upon it sat some of his favorite foods, pumpkin juice, and - he thought his mouth might've watered a bit at the sight - treacle tart.

Melby sniffed, but didn't cry - thankfully - and instead settled for looking up at Harry in anticipation.

When Harry looked at her again, he felt slightly overwhelmed.

She saw the look, and started to pull at her large ears for a moment. "Melby thought Mr Harry Potter Sir was being hungry," she said softly. "Does Mr Harry Potter Sir not want -"

Harry instantly cut her off, "No!" He tried for a small smile, and his lips seemed to want to cooperate with him for today. "I do. I - thank you."

The house-elf relaxed significantly as Harry sat down. She surprised him when she sat down in the chair on his right, humming to herself and kicking her short legs back and forth. Her eyes widened impossibly larger when she saw him staring at her. "Um," she pulled at her ears. "Melby is to be staying until Mr Harry Potter Sir finishes all his dinner." She grimaced, pulling on her large bat ears a bit harder. "Master's orders."

Harry didn't know why he was surprised. Of course _someone_ had to have told this elf to bring him something to eat. He guessed it just shocked him that someone - other than Hermione; she would never ask a house-elf for anything, even if it would help her friend (or Ron, because Hermione would kill him) - cared enough to do so. They had even had Melby bring his favorite meal. His chest warmed, and he was embarrassed by the slight flush that slithered its way up his cheeks.

Harry was brought abruptly from his thoughts at the sound of a snort of anxiety. He looked at Melby, who was staring at anything and everything other than him. He suddenly realized this house-elf was particularly small and had a very high-pitched voice, more so than others he'd met. He thought Melby might be _young_. It was kind of a strange thought.

"It's alright, Melby," he told her soothingly, before she had a melt-down. "I would love your company." Harry didn't even have to try for the next smile he gave the small creature, it just came naturally. He wasn't sure if he liked that, or not. He thought that maybe he did.

Melby sighed in relief and scooted her chair closer to the table. And they began to talk.

Melby, Harry soon realized, was an interesting little thing. She spoke of bizarre things like bright lights and pixie dust, like that of Disney's _Peter Pan_. He wasn't positive what it was, since he hadn't seen the movie, but Melby was very animated about it. She told him she liked to watch glowing fairies dance, had even called her favorite Tinker Bell. Harry didn't know what it meant, but thought it a nice name nevertheless.

Harry hadn't smiled so much in a long time, and he enjoyed the feeling. He didn't think about what it meant, just enjoyed a relaxed lunch with a house-elf that was well on her way to becoming one of Harry's good friends.

And when Melby left, well after he had finished his meal, Harry found himself in good spirits as he made his way back to his dormitory. Ron and Hermione stared in surprise as Harry passed them in the Common Room, flashing a soft smile. He didn't even care that he hadn't finished reading the chapter assigned in Transfiguration, for he felt better than he had in a long while.

Harry would be lying if he told you he hadn't been keeping a few tabs on Malfoy. He was instantly curious when he found Malfoy sneaking out the castle at night, two days in a row, only to disappear from the map after a few steps from the castle. He would search the map frantically, trying to find the boy's dot once more, only to be left disappointed when he couldn't find it after five minutes.

It seemed a bit silly, Harry thought, to go after him in the dark with no idea where he might've run off to. But he couldn't let it go. He'd never seen anything like it, and he was positive the Slytherin was up to something.

However, every time he tried to catch up to the boy sneaking out the doors, Melby was always there to remind him he should go to bed and have a good night's rest, somehow always knowing he was there, even with the Invisibility Cloak. And Harry loved the house-elf, really, had enjoyed many more meals and interesting conversations with her, but she tended to become a bit irritating when she told him she wouldn't leave until he went to bed. It wouldn't have mattered if he managed to get rid of her, anyway, because by that point, Malfoy was gone.

Harry eventually gave up, thinking it for the better because he _had_ been trying to ignore Malfoy, and the things he made Harry feel. The school year went on, Harry trying to talk to his friends more, and working harder than ever preparing for exams. He never truly forgot about Malfoy, or his pale lips lifting in a small, soft smile, but those thoughts had faded notably.

But one night, feeling restless and stressed, Harry pulled out the Marauder's Map and spelled it open. He watched as Malfoy's dot traveled the hallway that would lead him out the front doors, not especially thrilled and prepared to be disappointed, when Malfoy passed through the doors. And kept walking.

Harry abruptly sat up in his bed, bringing the map even closer to his face - just to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. Bet yes. What he was seeing was real. Malfoy's dot hadn't suddenly disappeared this time, but instead appeared to be moving towards the Forbidden Forest.

He didn't put down the map as he grabbed his Invisibility Cloak that always laid under his pillow, his wand that was perched on his nightstand, and his shoes. Harry would get past Melby tonight, he was determined, and find out just what Malfoy was thinking, going into the Forbidden Forest in what might as well have been the middle of the night. But when Harry reached the Entrance Hall, louder than he probably should've been - he wasn't 11 anymore, what could he say - Melby wasn't there. So he quietly snuck out the doors - relieved he still hadn't been stopped by the house-elf, but still cautious - and followed the map over snowy grounds to where it told him Malfoy stood just slightly past the edge of the forest.

Harry stopped behind a rather large tree when he heard something rustling up ahead. He barely caught himself before he could fist-pump the air in triumph that he hadn't been caught.

That would be childish - according to Hermione, anyway.

It was probably a bit ridiculous to be hiding when Malfoy couldn't possibly see him - what with his cloak still perched over his head - but that didn't stop Harry from silently sticking only his head around the tree trunk so he could properly see what was going on.

It was Malfoy and that damn _flute_. Or whatever it was.

 _Again._

Malfoy was dressed in dragon-hide boots and a snug, black robe that was no doubt keeping him incredibly warm - Harry wished he thought to bring something of the same, as he could see puffs of smoke coming from where he assumed his nose was.

The boy moved, his back to Harry, and Harry watched as once again Malfoy brought the instrument to his mouth. Unfortunately he couldn't see Malfoy's lips from his view behind the tree, but he got the idea. And again, Harry was disappointed at the lack of sound that reached his ears.

Yet still Malfoy held the gold and silver thing to his lips.

And, right before his eyes, something rather incredible started to happen.

Harry could only explain it as colorful dust that poured from the instrument, flowing in a stream of sparkling brilliant blues and glowing reds, up and down, left and right, zigzagging around trees and creating a circle above Malfoy's head.

Harry took a few steps closer, trying to get a better look at what Malfoy was doing, while also being entranced by the beautiful image. Every time Malfoy's fingers moved, a new color would slip from the instrument. Soon, dazzling purples, glistening greens, shimmering pinks, gleaming yellows, shining oranges, and so much more danced through the air in an array of flashing colors above them. It reminded him of a firework display, only better.

Harry thought it might've been the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. But the mystical vision didn't end there.

All at once, little people with wings - _fairies_ , his mind supplied helpfully - appeared from their hiding places, and flew with their partners into the air, dancing with the glaring colors and following the flow of vividness as it glided through the cold and crisp air. The fairies glowed every color of the rainbow, twisting and twirling, spinning and swaying in a delightful choreographed dance it looked like they'd done hundreds of times before. If one looked hard enough, it might seem like they were portraying an image of the Hogwarts castle, tall and large, beaming bright enough to light up the whole clearing.

And then there was music, not from the soundless flute, but from the fairies as they hummed in sync a beautiful hymn Harry never wanted to end. He didn't even notice, didn't care, as his cloak fell from his shoulders, his head thrown back as he witnessed the beautiful images above him change before his eyes. Malfoy saw, of course, and he laughed - music to Harry's ears - dropping the flute to the snow-covered forest floor. Harry forgot everything as he stared at the boy that smiled widely at him, forgot that they were supposed to be enemies, forgot they should hate each other, forgot he was trying to forget him, because in that moment, Malfoy - _Draco,_ Harry corrected - was the most beautiful thing in his life - a flaming beacon in his rather dark world, and it was a magnificent thing.

Harry couldn't help but join Draco in his laughter, the sound weird to his own ears. It seemed like forever since he'd last laughed so hard, and the action lifted mountains from his shoulders. He didn't even have to think as he and Draco danced along with the fairies, unashamed, and Harry was unable to look away from the other boy and the expressions that Harry had never seen him wear in his life.

He wrapped his arms around Draco's slim waist without a second thought, and the blonde boy quickly caught on, bringing his own arms to entwine around Harry's shoulders. The feeling of the Draco's warm and abundantly soft lips against his own had to be the greatest feeling in the world. The gentle push and probing tongue made him feel high, the pure bliss of long fingers running through his mussed up hair had his heart skipping a beat, and when the soft pads of pale thumbs gently brushed his cheeks, he felt a large burst of warmth flood his chest.

Why had Harry run from this? This was wonderful. This was simple. This was what he'd _always_ wanted.

This was _happiness_.

Harry and Draco collapsed against a tree trunk, still wrapped up in each other. They smiled goofily, and Draco laughed each time the fairies moved to change the picture. Harry, however, only had eyes for Draco. He had so many questions, but didn't know what to ask first, or how to word them.

Thankfully, when he noticed him staring at him, Draco took everything into his own hands by explaining, "The flute," he pointed to the gold and silver instrument that still lied on the ground, snow partially covering it, "is magical. Obviously. It's called a Tuneless Flute, and I found it in the Room of Requirement." His smile lost some of its glow at the mention of the room one of his best friends had passed away in. Harry wasn't surprised really, because the nasty Fiendfyre even licked at the back of _his_ eyelids a lot when he closed his eyes.

It was a vicious way to go.

"I didn't really do anything with it, as I was wrapped up with other things at the time, and I almost forgot about it after the war. I thought it was broken rubbish at first, but after researching more about it, I learned a few things.

"Humans can't hear the tune it plays; only the fairies can. It's like a sort of calling to them, I suppose. People can only _see_ what it plays." Draco looked back up, his grey eyes reflecting the illustration from above. "It _was_ actually broken when I first found it, though. It took awhile to fix it, and even longer to learn how to play, but I do believe this was worth it."

He turned his head to stare at Harry, grinning, and Harry found he quite agreed. But, he still wanted to know... _why?_

He must've voiced his concerns because Draco grabbed his hand and said, "Because I..." he bit his lower lip in embarrassment, looking away. "I... wanted to," he cleared his throat, and Harry decided he liked the pretty red flush climbing up Draco's cheeks. "Well, and I'm not usually this sappy, mind you, but you were looking rather... down. I knew I'd be able to grab your attention with this, especially with Melby's help-"

Harry perked up at the familiar name, "Woah, wait. You know-"

Draco's almost guilty look left Harry's mind running. So Melby was _Draco's_ house-elf? _Draco_ had sent her to give him food, and make him go to bed, and all around just take care of him? His mind traveled back to their first meeting, and, _of course_. Melby had talked non-stop about fairies and pixie dust and _Peter Pan_. Draco must've shown her this. A fond feeling swelled inside Harry.

"So..." Harry started, throat catching. "All of that... was _you_?"

"Well, yes, along with your other two golden friends. They helped by telling Melby when you left so she would catch you in time - we couldn't have you finding me until I was ready. Melby kept you healthy, and helped me disappear when you wanted to know where I was going." Draco looked at him knowingly. "House-elf magic is very intriguing, I must admit." He looked around, "And of course I did all this, thanks ever so." He gestured above them, laughing, before he turned back to Harry.

"I'd hoped it would lift your spirits. You don't have to be alone, you know." He said seriously before smiling. "And I did so love it when you smiled. I found myself missing your Gryffindorkness." He said the words with confidence, but his eyes told a different story. Draco was scared. Of what, Harry was unsure, because he felt so overwhelmed with warmth and affection and love, he thought he might explode.

This was what his friends had been trying to tell him all along, all in their own way. That they _cared_.

 _Draco_ cared.

And wasn't that just the slightest bit bizarre?

Harry thought it was his fault, that he had deserved all the pain he'd received. But they had all been trying to tell him otherwise. They'd been trying to take some of the weight. And Harry thought that maybe, just maybe, that would be okay. It would be okay to start feeling again, because he knew now that if he fell, he knew plenty of good people out there ready to catch him. Just like they'd done here.

So Harry stared silently at the blonde-haired boy and finally let the tears fall, the ones he'd been holding in for so long, because they _understood_. His friends and Draco... they understood, and they would _help_. "Thank you."

Draco looked a bit uncomfortable, worry building in his grey eyes, but Harry just shook his head. And kissed him. And felt all the things he couldn't let himself feel for so long.

And stopped denying the importance this boy held in his life.

Harry thought that having some to fight for, and having something to live for might not have been all that different after all. He fought for the people he cared for: for their lives, their health, their happiness. And he finally realized that if he wasn't alive - physically as well as mentally - that wouldn't make them happy. He thought that perhaps he just needed that push, that something to make him experience life as worth living, and _Draco Malfoy_ had been it.

And after being obsessed with the boy for so long, Harry decided he could probably live with that.


End file.
